All Hands On Yecchhh

A couple days ago, Hick came into the homestead as I was getting ready to leave for town. He plopped down in the La-Z-Boy. Chatted just long enough to throw me off my stringent schedule.

"Well...I'm gonna go pee, and make me some lunch."

He went to the boys' bathroom, then to the kitchen, and started pawing through FRIG II.

"Did you eat all that roast beef?"

Sure. I ate an entire container of roast beef. Maybe that's why the Whos down in Whoville
never invited me for Christmas dinner, fearing they'd not get a cut of their roast beast. There are none so blind as a man who cannot see a container of roast beef right in front of him in FRIG II.

"It's right where it was. On the second shelf. On the right."

I heard him pop the lid. Rustle around, in what I assume was the act of opening a soft pack of Land O Frost wafered ham. I went into the kitchen and saw Hick at the cutting block, up to his elbow in a bag of deli-style pepper jack cheese.

"You didn't wash your hands, did you?"

"Listen to you. Always on me."

"That doesn't answer the question. I KNOW you've been digging through your junk (heh, heh, not THAT kind) this morning. You come in the house and plop down. Then you go pee. I guarantee you didn't do that hands-free. Yet I didn't hear any water running in the sink..."

"You don't eat my cheese anyway."

"Maybe that's why!"

"My hands aren't dirty."
 
"Sure. How would you like it if I went out and pulled ticks off the dogs. Then grabbed them a handful of cat kibble. Then scratched my butt. THEN made your food. Without washing my hands?"

"Maybe you do. I don't know."

Seriously? I just can't. Hick never takes responsibility for his actions. He always tries to deflect. I'm surprised he doesn't just resort to "I know you are, but what am I?" That's about as mature.

Even when Hick DOES wash his hands, the top of the paper towel roll gets black fingerprints where he holds it down to tear one off.

It's like washing his hands makes them dirtier.